Dear Son,

When I met you, my Valentine’s Day surprise, I labored (literally) under the impression that I was opening my heart to you, my new little person, my son. Surrounded by pink and red balloons, I held you to my breast and promised you the world.

Now I know I was wrong. I didn’t open my heart to you; I gave my heart to you. When you cry, my heart cries. When you laugh, my heart fills with joy. And when you are deeply sad, as you have been lately, my heart aches so badly I can’t help but scoop you up and hold you close so you can feel the steady beat. Beating for you.

To be a mother is to give your heart freely, completely, and even enthusiastically to your child. You cease to own or control it; it merely rents space in your chest cavity. I didn’t even know I had done it that first day, before anything had a chance to go wrong.

This move to another country – though I know it’s right for us – is hardest on you. It’s the first hurt in your life I can’t fix. It won’t be the last.

My mother used to tell me, “If I could take the pain away from you and put it all on me I would.”

I understand how she felt. If I were in pain now I’m sure she’d feel the same way. After all, I have her heart.

I promised you the world and I’m delivering, but I know all you want right now is the familiarity of your old room. Your old friends. The swing in your old back yard.

If I could take the pain away from you and put it all on me I would.

My mother also used to tell me, “This, too, shall pass.”

And it will for you, too. As sure as every mother’s heart beats for her child, it will.

Love,

Mommy